


Always too much Thinking

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Confessions, Experienced Crowley (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Overthinking, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Aziraphale is good at many things, one of them is overthinking. He has a complete lack of control of his thoughts, especially when they seem to always revolve around Crowley and all things Crowley could do to him. When Armageddon is finally stopped, and they've found a bit of time, Aziraphale finally finds voice enough to ask for what he wants. Crowley, always enthusiastic, delivers.-“Oh, just,” Aziraphale even managed to stomp his foot. “This is foolish, we’re both just—stupid. Do stop me, please, I don’t think I can take much more of this.”Crowley took a step closer. Patient, just as he was. Waiting for that explicit permission.“Oh, do kiss me, Crowley, before I say something ludicrous—”Crowley was on him in a second and was everything he’d ever imagined.





	Always too much Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> My first good omens fic got a wee little bit out of hand, but we carry on like men and deal with it. What I wanted to be a bit of a character study on Aziraphale and my take on some of the scenes turned into this 10k monstrosity. I'm not even sorry. It's good shit, down there. Lots of good content. I can't wait to produce more.

Thinking of Crowley was an idle thing, something that Aziraphale never really meant to do. It was just in the way he would let his thoughts wander on during the long, long periods they didn’t see each other. Crowley had always liked to say it was a big universe, big enough for the both of them to move about and never interfere, though it seemed they always were. Somehow, they’d always found one another in the mess; so Aziraphale liked to tell himself, because it would be foolish to think that Crowley was ever looking for him. Not that it wouldn’t make perfect sense to assume something so brash. Crowley did have a way of always being just where he was needed, in the strangest of moments. The arranged meetings were one thing entirely, but it was in the moments where Aziraphale thought he might, truly, not see Crowley again that he always managed to show up. In those moments, Aziraphale couldn’t control precisely what he was thinking. Letting his thoughts wander just seemed a natural following given the situation. They were just thoughts he hadn’t paid mind to. Not originally. Not until the thought seemed to stem minds of their own and rather run wild with it.

The first time Aziraphale caught himself _thinking,_ when he otherwise might have had no reason to, was in the basement of the Bastille, his hands chained to the wall and a fretful amount of stain on his coat. The rather flamboyant, rotund man had been frozen. He’d introduced himself, Aziraphale was sure, but when he heard Crowley’s voice, he’d forgotten and turned just to see him. Like that. With a ridiculous style in his hair, small little glasses, and a slight quirk of a smirk on his lips.

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale quipped and did dreadfully attempt to tear his eyes away. This wasn’t the first time Crowley had quite miraculously appeared out of nowhere, though this could be considered an once and true rescue. Aziraphale was soon to find himself on the chopping block, which had been occupying his mind until this very moment. Surely, protecting this body from discorporation wasn’t frivolous. The Gabriel in his head didn’t seem to agree with that, which had left him in a bit of a sticky situation. However, if it was _Crowley_ undoing the cuffs and saving his life, well. The thoughts just happened on their own. Crowley’s look in tight pants and a well fitted jacket was surely something more impressive than Gabriel, even if he did have a knack for nice suits. Crowley’s clothes were certainly. Tighter.

Aziraphale didn’t let that particular thought entertain itself for long, if his only excuse was this sudden and strange comparison between a demon and an archangel. He’d reprimand himself for that one later.

There was a stray thought, somewhere in a time that Aziraphale couldn’t quite place. He hadn’t seen Crowley, at that time, in nearly seventy years. It wasn’t odd, so to say, just a passing thought that he might like to see him again. Might they take out for dinner, a quick bite. He’d been in an ever-craving mood for crepes, again, as it always was when these thoughts piqued their way back. There were better and more important things to worry about, for once, than food. He didn’t need to eat, after all, it was just one of the small pleasures of human life he’d taken to indulging in, and indulging was the proper word. Thankfully, finding clothing was quite an easy endeavor when he had magic on his side.

Magic wasn’t really the word for it, but Crowley liked to call it that. Crowley liked to do a lot of things that Aziraphale found himself mulling over when he’d least expected it. One of those things was, in true fashion, showing up just on time. This was not one of those times, and Aziraphale ended up eating dinner on his own with just one, maybe two glasses of wine. They might have been bottles, but he would’ve been hard pressed to actually remember. That night, he had actually taken to falling asleep. Not until he’d worn himself out first, though he’d never admit to making an Effort—not like that. Not to Crowley, of all. Not when the thoughts were quite specifically _about_ him, and even if they weren’t, it wasn’t Crowley’s business. If he wasn’t about to show up out of nowhere and take what might have otherwise rightfully been his, then it just. Wasn’t his business. There.

The next thought had been rather more than a punch to his gut, standing in the middle of a completely razed church with a bag in his hands. Their fingers had brushed when Crowley handed it over, the bag of books. His books. He’d been so focused on ensuring that he and Crowley survived, he’d forgotten all about them. Crowley had rather different ideas, protecting both the bag of books and his Bentley, not parked a whole yard from the church. What a bout of forethought, but that wasn’t anything near what passed through Aziraphale’s mind. No, he fancied the thought instead of what it might feel like for Crowley to _kiss_ him. Just the brush of their hands had nearly felt the same, but what a wonder it might have been to feel that same brush on his lips. Of all places.

He watched Crowley walk away, then, staring with what he imagined to be quite a look on his face. Crowley always had such a presence, an air about him. Everything was uniquely him, even if Aziraphale did miss the longer hair. The glasses had gotten better over the centuries, and now he’d taken to wearing rather nice fitting suits. Everything he’d worn had always been nice, but the pants were something especially. He tried not to linger too heavily on that particular thought; Crowley had offered him a lift, as he was so prone. If he could go anywhere in the world, tonight, it might be somewhere, that was for certain. A place without a name, and he did hope that Crowley would stay with him. Just a little longer before he disappeared again, as he was so prone. Crowley never did like spending too long in one place.

Until Soho, that was. Soho, London. Aziraphale had handed him a thermos of holy water and stared at him in such a way. Thinking, as he did, was so prone to doing. Thinking, listening, and watching—Crowley was so taken aback by the sudden gesture, and Aziraphale had expected this. So pointedly, 150 years ago, he’d told Crowley that this was out of the question. It was suicide. He’d _thought_ that it was suicide, but it seemed something more. Crowley knew how easy it was to get holy water, though perhaps sauntering through consecrated ground wasn’t an act he wished to perform again. There was no need for the whispers around town. No need for it then, no need now that he had the thermos in his hands and that look on his face. And all the thoughts—he wished he could stop thinking.

“You go to fast for me, Crowley,” but hadn’t it been 6000 years since he first saw that look on his face? Even with the glasses, he could still see very bit of movement, the way his eyebrows arched, his eyes gone wide, and so yellow and lovely beneath. That same look he’d seen every time Crowley had sauntered on into his life. This was about as slow as it could go, but it was fear. Fear of what these thoughts meant, what they truly and readily implied other than Aziraphale’s own feelings. Clearly, the thoughts had come from somewhere, and maybe they had come from the way Crowley looked at him. Maybe they had come in the bag with the books he’d saved. Either way, they were terrifying and fast; none if was really Crowley’s fault. Rather, how easy it was to blame him.

He had stepped out of the car and thought dreadfully long about what it would have felt like for Crowley to chase after him, take him by the hand and crowd him up against the wall of the strip club nearby. No one would ask questions, not under the assumption that they were drunk and rowdy. Just once, he needed Crowley to take initiative. Otherwise, he might never find his way out of this fog. Except, as Crowley drove off and relatively within speed, Aziraphale realized he’d killed his last chance for that.

Sometime later, Aziraphale heard promptly about the purchase of a downtown flat. Over the years, Crowley had talked not-so-in-depth about different investments, always sound as they were usually some consequence of a little temptation here or there. The perfect way to find himself in an overly expensive modern abode; Aziraphale preferred the homey atmosphere of his bookshop. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see the flat, and he certainly did, though Crowley didn’t particularly invite him. Not for the initial move in and no time after.

Aziraphale had ended up in the flat at some odd hours with Crowley slung over his shoulders, muttering on something about proper leather care instead of sobering up, like he should have done. It was proper to earn a hangover now and again, that had always been Crowley’s philosophy on the matter, though Aziraphale never understood it. Still, the flat had been just as Crowley was: modern and stylish. The plants were a lovely touch; Aziraphale had never seen houseplants that looked so luxurious. Though, upon even mentioning them, Crowley decided it was time for him to leave, and that he would crawl to his room on his own. Aziraphale hadn’t objected.

On his way out of the flat, he had thought dubiously on the prospect of Crowley’s room. Crowley’s specific indulgence was sleeping, he’d done so for a whole century. Aziraphale thought little of that time, rather loathed to acknowledge it. He had been one for quiet contemplation during the lapse, though a sore interruption would have been welcome. One never came; he’d found out at some odd meeting later that Crowley had laid down for a nap and just forgotten to wake up. Such as one does, he’d been told. Still, given these particular proclivities, Crowley’s room must have been lavish. He could only _imagine_ what must be in there. A bed, larger than it need be for just one, lonely demon—provided, of course, he _was_ lonely. And, Aziraphale cut himself off there and had returned to the bookshop, promptly, to drown himself out in something old and particularly difficult to translate. To occupy his mind. Of course.

Of course.

He paid no mind to the idea that maybe Crowley hadn’t ever invited him to the flat because he didn’t _want_ him there, because it truly was his den of iniquity, so to speak. However ridiculous the idea made Aziraphale feel at the given moment. That Crowley may have invited _others_ to the flat was entirely a situation beyond Aziraphale’s business. They weren’t even friends; they were hereditary enemies. If Crowley wanted to bed anyone, and he’d never seemed to have much a mind towards anyone in particular—men, women, anyone in between, it wasn’t any bother to Aziraphale. Not a one, not at all. It was simply that the particular Latin he’d picked up was complicated enough that he wasn’t really giving it his all, and thus his thoughts were wandering. What sorts of people did Crowley invite back to his flat?

Surely, he had to.

These unsolicited thoughts rather did placate after this, for a time. Not for long enough of a time, however, and each time they seemed to come back with a vengeance. Especially when Armageddon began. Crowley was never far, not when the fate of the world was at stake. It wasn’t like they were spending the night in each other’s company; it was more of a daytime job than anything. That didn’t change anything, even if Aziraphale was beginning to wish Crowley hadn’t cut his hair. Beginning was for lack of a willingness to admit he’d been mulling this over since 1941. That was hardly an appropriate comment to make, given the hierarchy of importance. It probably ranked last on the list, right under “tell Crowley you dream about what sweet and passionate love he might make to you”. All entirely inappropriate.

* * *

Somewhere along the line he’d had the brilliant idea to go back to the hospital where the Anti-Christ had been born. The drive wasn’t pleasant but arriving had rather been along better lines. What love the place had seen over these past eleven years. But then, of course, the paint ball. He could have just wished it away, the stain. He should have, in hindsight, but he thought he might try something a little different. All in the name of experimentation, of course, just to see if Crowley would _do_ something, because somewhere in the mind of an angel, a demon vanishing a stain for him was some ultimate act of care. Whether or not that was a valid train of thought remained to be seen, and Aziraphale was sure to have a stern talking to himself later. Except, Crowley _blew_ the stain away.

In the span of seconds, there was far too much to look at. There was the purse of Crowley’s lips, the slight crease in his brow that might have even been sympathy, if Aziraphale new any better. But there was how the stain on his chest vanished all the same; Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed it until he watched the red flit about after the blue. Not that he’d spent all that much time watching the stains, as they disappeared off behind him. There was, rather, the deep v of Crowley’s shirt. Deep was relative, but there was just enough peak through of Crowley’s chest—but they were carrying on after that. After a brief thank you, of course, because Aziraphale _was_ touched by the service. And wondered what else Crowley might be willing to do if he only just asked.

His thoughts were rather tame for the following few minutes, even as Crowley insinuated there might have been people just outside the walls with _guns_ that were _killing_ each other, free will and all that. He had a slight of point, save that the guns hadn’t been real until he’d willed them so. And what a thing it was when Crowley had so begrudgingly admitted they weren’t actually killing each other, nice as it were, until it wasn’t. Until he was forcing Aziraphale up against the wall with just enough to appear rough and angry, but not so much that Aziraphale didn’t have time to catch himself and lean back of his own accord, the thud of his head into the wall. Crowley was rough, all demons were, but it was a roughness of a man putting on a show. Rubbing the scales backwards, so to say, and not actually dealing with the end of his bite. Maybe he had a bite, Aziraphale had not witnessed it, but that was beside the whole point.

These thoughts, what have they, were _swarming_ around his head in all of an instant, a pure and unbridled second. Crowley was close enough that their noses brushed, their breath mingled—Aziraphale was staring none abashed at the curl of his lips. He was angry. Teeth. But his lips—what it might be like if he were to use that anger to just _kiss_ Aziraphale instead, a rough and hard tumble of teeth and tongue, up against the wall here because there was no better place. If he would only press a little closer, their hips slotted together and chests flush, the puff of his breath along Aziraphale’s neck, and _teeth._ He always did wonder just what Crowley could do with his mouth, his tongue. He was a snake, after all. But—oh, if he only knew all the surfaces Aziraphale would be more than happy to find himself forced up against and just. Taken. Turned face to the wall with Crowley pressing up against him; Crowley between his thighs. Crowley—Crowley, _anything_. At least a small peck, if he wasn’t being too greedy.

But then Crowley was turning his head, a new threat acquired, and Aziraphale took a minute to stare before the noise caught up with him and he realized they’d been interrupted. An “intimate moment”, she’d called it, all in over-estimation. It was back to business as usual in the span of a second, and Aziraphale couldn’t have tried harder to adjust himself and appear content with the series of events. It had been the least intimate thing they’d done, given their long history, but she didn’t need to know that—their intruder. She hadn’t stopped anything. Nothing that would start anytime soon, if Aziraphale had the right with his guesses. He usually did.

Then, as they did, things continued. Armageddon was pressing and choosing a side was becoming more and more of dire importance. All of his thoughts found themselves rather rudely set aside to the back burner while he’d found the Anti-Christ and promptly lied about it right through the phone. He’d never been a particularly good liar, but the shock of his hurry was probably enough to keep Crowley away. Cursed how he didn’t want that but wanted it all the same. It would be better if they just, if they didn’t work the way they’d used to. If this plan failed, _if_ there was no way to prevent the impending end of the world, they would truly be on opposite sides. He may even have to fight Crowley. Though, in the quiet somber of his bookshop, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

It may not, not with. Well, it was entirely his fault, and he knew that. Crowley had wanted to meet, and everything fell apart under that bandstand, because now Aziraphale was left with some horrid thought that Crowley _did_ care about him. Enough to offer them a way out, even if it was ludicrous and over the top—running away to Alpha Centauri. How would they even get there? The Bentley certainly couldn’t fly, no, and going out there on their own may result in a rather unfortunate discorporation. That would send them both straight to Heaven and Hell, respectfully, where they would never see each other again. This, of course, was Aziraphale letting his thoughts run wild again in a direction that was easier to take than the alternative, that Crowley wanted to run away with him in a perfectly reasonably method and live out their eternities in each other’s company. That wasn’t something you did with an enemy, but then Aziraphale had to go and _say it._

“There is no our side, not anymore!” he’d shouted it.

Like he was angry, but Lord he wasn’t angry. He needed Crowley to know he wasn’t—but that was asking too much. That was asking for Crowley to see past everything he’d thrown up in their gathering for the fear and lie that it was and understand something he’d never said. Back in 1941, he’d realized something he should have known all along. Now, in the present, he realized to what extreme it had gone. And still, he hadn’t the courage to buck up, so to say, and do something about it. For all expectation that Crowley would have done something by now, he did as he always did—exactly what he suspected Aziraphale wanted of him. He had usually been correct. Arriving when Aziraphale wanted him to save him, wanted a spot of lunch, wanted a drinking companion for the evening. But this time. He’d done what he’d suspected Aziraphale wanted and _was_ still correct, as Aziraphale hadn’t given any indication to the contrary. Even if Crowley was wrong, because Aziraphale wanted him to rush forward. He wanted Crowley’s hands on him, a safe and warm place to crowd into and have Crowley tell him how alright it would all be. Quite a different fantasy than the usual, but—

Crowley walked away.

He walked away.

* * *

Maybe in all true a fashion, Crowley had come, quite literally, running back some time later with a half-baked apology he hadn’t needed. Once again, his offer was open. Still. Even after what Aziraphale had said. Aziraphale was taken aback by it, but there was still that stubbornness. This wasn’t something he had to do alone, he told himself that, but that’s not what came out of his mouth. It never was. Always with the pushing away, and Crowley _left_ again, this time for good. He’d really said that. That he was leaving and wouldn’t even think of Aziraphale. It had stung more than it needed to, and the passerby’s comment left a sour taste in the back of his throat. He wasn’t better off without Crowley. He’d never been. He had always needed Crowley, from the first moment they met, to the Bastille, to the church, to the hospital, to the present, but he’d let that pass. Just as he always had. Waiting for Crowley to stop being so polite, which was just not in his character.

Not that there was time enough in the world to fix it. They had hours and hours only; Crowley was running away to the stars, and Aziraphale had stepped backwards into a portal he wasn’t prepared for.

Heaven was always such an experience. It was lovely, sure, but cold and vast and empty. Aziraphale had rather preferred the comfort of his bookshop, surrounded by things and warmth. On a good day, Crowley would hole up there with him and flit through books in his idle and spare time. On a bad day, Aziraphale could bask on his own, so it wasn’t ever bad at all. Heaven was none of that. Heaven was, dare he say, vicious. Cold. Unwelcoming. The angels were not strangers to cruelty. Especially not with Aziraphale, but this time, he found himself not caring quite so much. Not at this sudden prospect—he got to see Crowley again.

And Crowley hadn’t even _left,_ the daft fool. He’d done everything right and perfect, and if it wasn’t for their distance, the fact that Crowley had about three too many bottles of wine in his system, or the rather inconvenient discorporation, Aziraphale might have had the strength then to say something.

_Oh, Crowley, I love you._

Instead, they talked about Tadfield Air Base, and Crowley showed off his souvenir—The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch—with all the enthusiasm and excitement of a four-year child with his first toy. Back to business, as usual. It was always business, though this probably wasn’t the worst time for it to be about business, what with the apocalypse coming and all. No, business was good. Business was preferable. Better not to have all those feelings bumping about in his head—oh, if only there was a way to turn them off. He was quite worried about the coming events, about the consequences and outcomes. Maybe the world was important to save, but what of Crowley, he wondered. Even if the whole world burned, if Crowley might survive, well.

There wasn’t time for that.

Crowley was _back_. He’d never walked away, not really, and just sauntering on as he did. He had the nerve to compliment Aziraphale’s “new ride”, he’d called it. The dress and everything. Aziraphale tried as hard to not sound flattered as he did to not _feel_ flattered. Maybe Crowley was into that. He had been a nanny, after all, but maybe the interest was particularly projected onto Aziraphale—which, again, not the time. Not the place. It was beginning to feel like there was neither time nor place for this, but it was alright, because they were together now. They would be, unless Satan himself would mess that up. Aziraphale wasn’t about to let that happen, but there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t _stop time—_

 _“_ Or I’ll never talk to you again,” Aziraphale had said like the worst threat he could think of.

Crowley reacted like it _was_ the worst threat he could think of and froze time. Just long enough that they could sort out a plan and really look the part if fighting Satan was the last thing they were ever going to do. Thankfully, Adam had different ideas and ended up saving the world on his own. And that, with that, left the rest of forever. It left Aziraphale sitting on a bench next to Crowley in the middle of the evening, in the dark, waiting for a bus that wasn’t even going to London. Still, it felt like all the time in the world. It wasn’t, as there was a pressing matter burning at the breast pocket of Aziraphale’s coat, but that could wait for the moment.

After all, Crowley had just invited him to his flat. The flat he’d never before really received a formal invitation too, for reasons he could only speculate and did not really want to. Crowley’s flat. Because the bookshop had burned down. He didn’t have his books and his comfort anymore, so Crowley was offering himself—his own home, really. Nothing more. Maybe a nice strong bout of brandy or something, but not himself. That was wishful thinking. A lot of it had been wishful thinking. Still, he couldn’t help himself in the moment, the dark, letting the thoughts spin back up. In their victory, what it might be like to kiss Crowley now. To at least hold his hand, as they stepped up onto the last bus to Oxford. It would drive to London anyway.

Maybe it was the thrill of the battle-that-wasn’t, maybe it was the lateness, exhaustion, or maybe Aziraphale was just tired of waiting and wondering. It was probably the delirium of exhaustion, though. He might even sleep. For a century, because when he sat down on the bus beside Crowley, he let his hand fall beside his thigh. Atop Crowley’s on the space between them. He wasn’t sure what was worse, that he’d allow himself to do it, or that Crowley didn’t even flinch. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem shocked. Crowley just leaned into his hand, against the window of the bus, and glanced over at Aziraphale through the gap his glasses left away from his face.

Aziraphale really did hate these glasses.

“Do you think they’ll come after us now?” Aziraphale asked, idly. They were alone enough.

“Who? Heaven and Hell?” And Crowley sounded like he was about to laugh. “Oh—no, not at all, angel. Sure, they’ll leave us be, what having stopped their entire plan and all.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, “yes, quite. I realize it wasn’t the brightest of questions.”

“What’s really on your mind?” Crowley turned his whole head this time, to look, and still hadn’t shifted away his hand.

“Well, I—rather,” Aziraphale fished the little piece of prophecy out of his pocket. “It’s still weighing on me.”

Crowley let out a hum of acknowledgment. He didn’t reach out to grab the paper, though, as that would require moving his hand from beneath Aziraphale’s, a detail that did not go unnoticed. Aziraphale gulped and read the prophecy aloud.

“We know they’ll be after us,” Crowley mulled, “it’s just a matter of when and what sorts of entertainment we’ll be receiving. I’ve a slight feeling you won’t be getting any rude notes this time.”

Aziraphale flinched, “no, I, uh, suppose not.” A chuckle.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes, Crowley?” lightly happier than he was.

“You’re doing that _thing._ ”

“Thing? What thing? Mind, I haven’t done _any_ thing.”

“Right, of course,” Crowley shifted enough to look out the window then. “It’s just your nose always crinkles up when you’ve got something on the mind. Too much thinking, you. Thinking’s bad, especially this time of night. Or any time, really, I always say.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale frowned. Crowley just shrugged.

Then silence. Their hands still touching.

“Suppose this is a topic better left after a bit to drink, then?” Crowley looked back at him. When Aziraphale didn’t immediately answer, that was answer enough. Aziraphale only shifted awkwardly in his seat and pulled his hands back to rest in his lap. In response, Crowley seemed to grunt and shift away as well.

Aziraphale mentally kicked himself and the thoughts ran round again in ways he hadn’t dealt with in a long time. It was always Gabriel’s voice, when he reprimanded himself. It felt odd, given the situation, to hear _Gabriel,_ of all, berate him for ruining yet another moment with Crowley, but it was merely habit. Gabriel had always been there to tell him of his impending failure. This didn’t seem to be different, even as it left a sick taste in his mouth. Still, so the rest of the ride went in silence until the bus driver did, eventually, end up in London. At a stop that didn’t exist, not a block’s walk away from Crowley’s flat. They did walk, in silence, and Crowley even held the door to the building open. More silence, until they reached the door to his flat, and Aziraphale noticed the very particular snake designed doorbell cover.

“You’ve never invited me to your flat before,” Aziraphale said, staring.

“Haven’t I? Could’ve sworn,” Crowley swung the door open and held it, then let it slam behind them as they walked in through the foyer.

“You were quite drunk last I was here. I complimented your plants, and you demanded that I leave.”

“Think I would’ve remembered that,” Crowley said. The look on his face left a strange feeling in Aziraphale’s stomach, but he didn’t mention it further. He just followed in through the study and took it all in. There was a mess on the floor that he didn’t ask about, pages of a book stacked rather roughly on the desk that he didn’t mention. He just followed Crowley through, stole a peak at the plants, and blindly ended up in the sitting room off to the side where Crowley had a couch that painfully matched the throne in the study—aesthetically pleasing and rather hard, when they sat down.

“Rather, uh,” Aziraphale sniffed, “bare, don’t you think?”

“Hm?” Crowley didn’t appear to be listening, but he did take his glasses off and fold them up on the coffee table.

Aziraphale just stared on and. Something. They looked at each other and there was something that Aziraphale couldn’t place, didn’t understand. Something that made him want to shift a bit closer and realize just how _cold_ it was in Crowley’s flat, and how pressing it was to think about things and ask questions. Stupid, stupid questions—

“What was that in the study?”

Crowley stiffened, but he told the story of Hastur and Ligur marching into his apartment with definite orders to do away with him. He’d used the holy water, and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief at that. Insurance, Crowley had called it, and that’s exactly what it had been. His sigh was loud enough, noticeable enough, and understandable enough that Crowley stopped short in his story and stared at him, wide and yellow eyes—and, oh how lovely they were. Aziraphale had always loved them.

“Did you really think that I meant it like that?” Crowley asked. “For suicide, I mean—”

“I was afraid, but I don’t think I ever truly believed you would.”

“I wouldn’t,” he confirmed, “if it makes you feel better.”

It did.

“I would be quite put out to lose you,” Aziraphale let slip, and turned to explain himself, but Crowley was just. Staring at him as he did. With such a look that, well, Aziraphale retracted the apology before he’d even said it and just tilted his head in question.

“Thought I did lose you, that’s all,” Crowley waved it off like it wasn’t an issue. Only, it _was_ an issue, it had to be an issue. The question was written out as plainly as ever on his face, because Crowley continued. “I went to the bookshop to find you, found it burning instead. Thought, well, you know,” and Aziraphale did.

“Oh. Oh, my dear, I—I’m so sorry,” he squeezed his hands in his lap. It was just fire, but Crowley hadn’t had any reason to know that. Hellfire would have surely—would _surely_ be the end of an angel. And. That was it. That was the meaning of the prophecy. Aziraphale had jumped to his feet all of the sudden, grabbing for the paper again and—

“Fire!” he shouted.

“Yeah,” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but what are you doing? If this is some cruel—”

“No, no, listen—it’s hellfire. Agnes Nutter is trying to tell us how we’ll be sought after. They mean to destroy us, of course!” which needn’t sound quite as jovial as he’d made it. “Oh, my, this is—surely we can find a way to—if they mean to use hellfire and holy water, anyway. I could be wrong, but that seems—yes, yes it seems that way,” and he stumbled off into muttering just below his breath, looking over the prophecy.

“We might just swap places,” Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale stopped in his pacing. “Bit of magic here and there. We’re quite good at that. Magic, I mean.”

“Oh, oh that’s perfect! Yes, that’s just what will work, oh, Crowley, my dear, I could kiss you—” and that. Yes, he stopped himself there. He couldn’t even bring himself to apologize, nor even _look_ at Crowley.

“Well?” he heard.

“ _Well?_ ” Aziraphale did turn to look at him, lounging back on his couch like he did, with his legs crossed and one arm thrown behind the back of it. They stared at each other for long enough that Crowley let out a grunt of frustration and pushed himself up to his feet.

“Six-thousand years, angel,” Crowley was stalking across the room to him. “Six thousand years, I’ve known you, and never once to say what’s on your mind. You’re awful at lying, and even worse at hiding things. It’s a skill, really.”

Aziraphale was still too shocked to speak. Crowley came closer until they were against the wall, still a respectable and appropriate distance between them. Aziraphale had been the one to back up, as if there really had been someplace to go. Even now, he knew there was no reason to be afraid. It wasn’t as though Crowley was going to do anything to him, not without explicit permission—that was just Crowley’s way. Patient and kind; everything would happen all in good moments, if Aziraphale could find the courage to let it.

“For once, will you just say what’s on your mind?” Crowley was pleading. “We can talk out the specifics, if you prefer. Anything you like, angel. Just _talk_ to me.” They were friends. Talking is what friends do.

Aziraphale had no real interest in being friends, not anymore. Not when something else was so close. All he had to do was grab for it, reach for it.

“Have you—have you ever invited someone here?” Aziraphale asked, quietly. It was the pressing issue between him and feeling safe.

“No,” Crowley responded immediately. “I don’t like people in my home.”

Somehow, that didn’t seem to satisfy the feeling Aziraphale had been overwhelmed with. He glanced at Crowley, then made a rather pointed glance down his body. He didn’t need to ask if Crowley had made an Effort—the tight pants had never left much to question. Still, Aziraphale gulped.

“This is frightfully stupid of me,” Aziraphale muttered. “I do apologize, my dear, I just—”

“Don’t do that,” Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale did not do that, “right,” he said. “Just, uh, one question then,” an uncomfortable laugh, “if you don’t mind. Um, have you, well—not that you haven’t made the Effort, that’s easy enough, not that I’ve been looking, and really it’s none of my business, but it _is_ rather obvious, and I just—I guess I was wondering if you’ve, perhaps, well. With the humans, you know—”

“Please,” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, “this is getting painful. Yes, I have. It’s just sort of a _thing_ , you know. Demon and all. Temptation and lust tend to go hand in hand. But never here,” and he folded his arms. Aziraphale figured well that Crowley didn’t need to ask the purpose of these questions because he already knew. How fretfully obvious he’d been, all these years. Perhaps, the both of them.

“Oh, just,” Aziraphale even managed to stomp his foot. “This is foolish, we’re both just— _stupid._ Do stop me, please, I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

Crowley took a step closer. Patient, just as he was. Waiting for that explicit permission.

“Oh, do _kiss_ me, Crowley, before I say something ludicrous—”

Crowley was on him in a second and was everything he’d ever imagined. Crowley’s hands came up to cup around his jaw in a sudden press of desperation, a knock of teeth together as Crowley did just as he’d been told. Aziraphale pressed back with all the fervor he could manage, getting his hands into the folds of Crowley’s suit jacket and just. Kissing him. The sear of Crowley’s lips against his, the hesitant little dip of his tongue—Aziraphale could do that. He could kiss, he’d kissed people before. Never like this, but nothing with Crowley ever matched up to what he’d done with humans. No, it was always better. Then Crowley was spurned closer by the little noises Aziraphale was letting out, and his tongue was everywhere. Licking along Aziraphale’s bottom lip, over his teeth, the back of his mouth—oh, it was—

When they pulled apart for a moment, air between them in the shock of it all, Aziraphale watched the yellow just bleed out over Crowley’s eyes like he was having difficulty containing himself. It explained the sudden shape of his tongue, long and forked and everything Aziraphale imagined it could be. In the moment, he just needed to take it all in. He put his hands around Crowley’s face and just stared at him, watching the way his pupils fluctuated and the yellow really _took._ These were the eyes that Aziraphale really loved. All Crowley and so little hiding behind human, oh he just had to lean forward again and kiss Crowley. It was slow, this time, lacking the urgency they probably needed given the sudden time limit potential on their _lives_ , but it was just them for the moment.

Crowley’s hands were in his hair, running down over the back of his head and to his neck to hold him in place while he shifted closer, a leg suddenly between his thighs and the kiss hotter. The tongue was back, and Crowley’s knee—and then the hands were on his chest and his waist, and Aziraphale had to push Crowley back.

“I’ve never, well,” Aziraphale tried to find the words, but Crowley seemed to understand without them as he put space between them again, his hands back to a respectable place on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“We don’t have to, angel,” he said.

“No, that’s not. Why, that’s not it at all, you,” Aziraphale folded his hands behind Crowley’s neck and pulled him closer, flush up against him, against the wall, like he’d imagined they might be. Crowley dipped his head down to press their foreheads together, and for the first time, Aziraphale realized that Crowley wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t blinking. All of his energy was focused on Aziraphale, not on the human body he’d been stuffed into.

“I want to,” Aziraphale continued. “With you, for a long time—”

“How long?” Crowley sounded like he was laughing. His hands had fallen to Aziraphale’s hips and he was playing under his waist coat, where his shirt was stubbornly tucked into his pants. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Perhaps not, but I do say it’s been a long time. Perhaps there will be— _oh,_ ” Crowley was undoing his trousers, “time to discuss later?”

Crowley enthusiastically agreed with that sentiment, leaning in to steal another searing kiss before grabbing Aziraphale by the arm and dragging off. The bedroom wasn’t a door down the hall, and it was positively everything Aziraphale had imagined. The bed was large, plush, an overly ornate frame in the same style as the rest of his furniture, done over with tight black sheets and red pillowcases. It was so very Crowley, given that the rest of the room was nearly empty, though he couldn’t help but notice the small plant on the nightstand.

The moment they toppled back onto the bed, Crowley was on top of Aziraphale undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, his trousers, all with furious annoyance at how many there were. Eventually, he gave up completely and moved to his own clothes, which were significantly easier. He didn’t _care_ if something broke or ripped in the hurry he was in to get them off, shoving his jacket down, pulling his shirt over his head without even bothering with the buttons. In the meantime, Aziraphale dealt with his own clothes. A little miracle might have not hurt, but they probably didn’t need to attract attention. Even if this part was tedious and ridiculous, but when they were both down to their pants, Crowley was down and over him again with lips attached at a particular point on the side of his neck where the stars seemed to come alight.

Aziraphale found it in himself then to touch back, to let his hands roam up Crowley’s sides and over the divots of his ribs, over his chest and up to his hair. Something about the sudden closeness had Aziraphale wishing time could stop so he could just hold onto it for a moment, to Crowley—even if Crowley _could_ stop time, it wasn’t a bright idea. Still, Crowley obliged him just as he could and stayed where he was, sucking little marks onto his skin while Aziraphale fought on for his courage. He found it somewhere between the fourth bruise and Crowley’s hands slipping down between them to ghost over his chest, over his nipples specifically, and he _gasped._

It was all something a bit desperate after that, after the gasp, because Crowley just wanted to hear more of those noises. Even if it meant shoving Aziraphale’s hands down to the bed so he had free roam to really show off what he could do. All of it was in the tongue, of course, and the experience that Aziraphale was refusing to acknowledge. But Crowley kissed downward, following each line of plump flesh down and around until he reached the waistband of Aziraphale’s pants, and then it was time for those to go. Time for his own to go, too, and he groaned in frustration as he pulled back. This was the funny part of _intimacy_ that no one had told him or Aziraphale about, the part where Crowley wore pants that were too tight to just pull off, so he had to roll off the bed to shimmy them down.

Aziraphale even laughed.

“You could, you know,” Crowley waved a gesture at Aziraphale’s own pants. Nothing happened, even as he managed his own tight jeans down to the floor. It was either the staring or the sudden rush of red that overtook Aziraphale, from the tips of his ears down to his chest.

“Don’t get shy on me now, angel,” Crowley said with such a fondness that it wasn’t helping.

“No, it’s not, well—I,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, “rather, this is…”

Crowley stalked over to the side of the bed and leaned over it, offering an idle hand to slip idly about Aziraphale’s chest while he pressed another kiss into him. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do with himself, wasn’t sure what being _naked_ was going to really mean, his Effort or not. It was more what it might mean about Crowley and him. It had all been so comfortable for six-thousand years, the thoughts or not. Now that it was all so close, Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to do anything but cup at Crowley’s cheek and just—

“I trust you,” he told him, “and I love you. I always have, I just. I need you.”

Crowley smiled something soft and so unlike him that Aziraphale’s heart seized up. Then, “your wish is my command,” he said almost mockingly, but did move back onto the bed to rid Aziraphale of the rest of his clothes and straddle over his thighs. They were both naked and nothing had changed, not yet, not that Aziraphale could _feel_. What he could feel was Crowley’s cock, though, hard and incessant against him as he leaned forward with his hands on either size of Aziraphale’s head. Like a snake, Aziraphale thought idly, surrounding his prey. His eyes were quite lovely.

“So,” Crowley seemed to hiss, “what’s on the menu tonight? What do you want?” he was inching closer with each word, rocking his hips now. It felt right, it felt like what Aziraphale had dreamed about, that somehow Crowley was just going to use him for his own pleasure. Oh, it sounded devious.

“I want you,” Aziraphale replied, letting his hands card through the short strands of Crowley’s hair.

“Obviously,” Crowley mocked. “I meant _how._ ”

The words were dry in his throat, though, even if he’d thought about _how._ How, it was just—he wanted Crowley anyway he could have him.

“Do you need some examples? I can set up a presentation, if you like. Lots of ways we can do this, sex. Lots of positions, lots of things, you know. We could just rub off together. ‘Course we could do something a little _closer_ ,” he laughed to himself. “Depends then what you want. Could just ride you like this, makes it easier on you. Walk you through all the steps, if you like, maybe a different position—”

“No, I think I would—well, it is to say that, um—”

“Breathe,” Crowley pressed their foreheads together. “We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.”

“I do! It’s just, oh this is so embarrassing, I don’t know—I want you to take charge, Crowley. I need you to, I want you to take me and ravish me, and—and just have your way with me.” Followed by a squeak, Aziraphale covered his face.

Crowley hummed, clearly impressed, “someone’s given this more thought than he wants to admit.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Aziraphale whined.

For once, Crowley did. He fitted himself squarely between Aziraphale’s thighs, spreading them wide and open around his hips. They were pressed flush against each other, Crowley rutting against Aziraphale like it was an idle and bored thing, like he was mulling something over while he drank in the whines and little moans Aziraphale was letting out. He was hard, they both were, but Aziraphale was _shaking_ over it, still not with even a mind to reach out and touch himself. Crowley did it for him, taking one hand full of the meat on his hip and one hand wrapping around the base of his cock.

“There’s an endless amount of possibilities,” Crowley hissed lowly at him. “But this is nice. Nice,” he said again, letting the sound roll of his tongue. He pushed his hips forward in a sudden harshness, ripping a gasp from Aziraphale, who gripped into the pillows and worried into his bottom lip.

Crowley’s touch wasn’t meant for anything, just a slow drag of his fingers enough to keep Aziraphale’s prick interested, but nothing to bring him closer, give him any _pleasure_ , for pleasure’s sake. The worst of it was that Crowley was having fun at it too, watching the way Aziraphale’s hips stuttered and thighs shook, all for an adorable attempt at keeping himself composed. There would be other times to tear down that composure; if they were to do this now, Crowley wasn’t _ever_ going to let him go—Aziraphale could see that in his eyes. A possessiveness that shot right through him as his hand suddenly squeezed and picked up pace, all while he bent over to mouth across Aziraphale’s chest, over his nipples where he took one into his mouth and sucked.

Aziraphale positively keened, finally finding it in himself to touch the magnificent marvel atop him. He brought his knees up, spreading his legs wider to welcome Crowley closer, let his hands trail along Crowley’s back until a particular spot left him hissing at the touch. Aziraphale fiddled there, let his fingernails draw red little patterns until he could _feel_ the way Crowley was starting to shake between his thighs. His hips were working in time with his hand, like—oh, Aziraphale had rather _liked_ the idea of Crowley inside him, he’d be fine with just the rub-off suggestion, but—

“Crowley, my dear,” he managed out, a particular bit of teeth leaving him rather breathless. But Crowley did stop. “I want, I want you _inside_ me.”

“Getting to that, angel,” Crowley replied with some bite to his voice, but he went right along with his sucking and stroking until Aziraphale was trembling. Moaning, gripping into Crowley’s back for purchase because this was, there was a warmth pooling inside of him that he’d never experienced. It didn’t take a moment after for him to come, making quite a mess of himself between the two of them. Only then did Crowley pull back enough to see his handy work.

There was a quite delicate array of bruises blossoming all along Aziraphale’s chest. Now that would be quite a show for Heaven to see if Crowley had a mind to let anyone see Aziraphale like this: open, trembling, messed in his own come. It was quite a sight. Even if Aziraphale felt rather a fool with the way Crowley was looking at him like _dinner_. If this was the real reason that Crowley didn’t tend to eat, then, well—there was time for that later. Aziraphale draped an arm over his eyes and groaned, rather dramatically, when Crowley’s fingers ran through the mess on his belly. He was trying all he could to ignore just how vulnerable he felt like this. Insecure was props a better word for it, but it was hard to dwell on that with the way Crowley was looking at him. Like he might even enjoy another pound or so of fat to grab onto, with the sudden way his hands were grabbing and massaging over Aziraphale’s sides.

“Now that we’ve got that over with,” Crowley talked in a dangerous little drawl, “might we move onto the main course, angel?”

“I do say so. Please, Crowley, I’ve waited long enough—”

Crowley snorted, but he didn’t comment. He shifted back; Aziraphale let him manhandle his legs around until things were comfortable, and then there was a sudden press at his backside with a slickness Aziraphale hadn’t expected. It was cold, too, and sliding just inside. He gasped, biting down on the side of his hand as he wriggled down into it. Crowley’s finger. Crowley had slipped his finger right up inside him like it was nothing, and it was _everything_ , because Aziraphale was gasping and all too put aside at the fact that Crowley had used a miracle for something like this. Why not just go all the way and skip the business part?

It had taken less than a minute for Aziraphale to answer his own question. Two fingers were moving in him just deliciously. Crowley knew just what to do, where to press, where to spread and prod; Aziraphale had his head thrown back. His hips were moving on their own, always like the rest of him in his hedonistic wiles, trying to find _more._ Every word out of his mouth was an as for more, to press there, just a little to the side, more, more, _more._ Crowley always obliged, doing just as Aziraphale told him with that smirk on his face that said he was rather proud of himself. Then there was a third finger, and Aziraphale was whining out through his pressed lips.

“Now, now, angel,” Crowley crooned, leaning in to bury his face along Aziraphale’s neck. “Let me hear you. I want to know what I do to you.”

“You do _marvelous—_ oh—things to me,” Aziraphale told him. They met in a kiss as Crowley pulled his fingers back.

One more _minor_ little miracle wouldn’t hurt, so Crowley did over his own cock this time. He was aching, ignored himself for too long now. But now he was slipping closer, pressing up between Aziraphale’s cheeks and blindly seeking out his entrance, all while they kissed. The kissing—Aziraphale would never get over the kissing. Even as he felt the blunt head of Crowley’s cock press up against him, they were still kissing. Crowley swallowed his moans, shifted to keep their mouths slotted together as he finally sunk home. Aziraphale groaned into their kiss, burying his fingers in Crowley’s hair to somehow yank him closer, steal his breath, feel his tongue in the back of his throat like Crowley had him from both ends. They could kiss _forever_ ; Aziraphale wished they could.

His head rolled back as Crowley pushed in, slowly and slower, and just listening to the way Aziraphale moaned out some idle bit of praise at it. So good, so _big_ , perfect—any nice little word he could still remember how to say with one hand in Crowley’s hair and one clutched up on his chest. Inch by little inch Crowley pushed in, his brow knitted together, his hand fisted up in the sheets as he struggled to maintain control. When he came to be fully pressed against Aziraphale’s rear, Aziraphale wrapped his legs around him like he might try and impossibly bring them closer together. He was trying to spur Crowley on. Which one of them _truly_ hadn’t lost their composure? It was likely Crowley wouldn’t, not this time, but Aziraphale was already thinking about next time. They’d have _eternity_ if they could survive Heaven and Hell. Until then, this would have to do.

The controlled roll of Crowley’s hips in sharp, sudden little thrusts was _everything_ Aziraphale had dreamed about. All in pointed effort to bring _him_ pleasure, rutting right up against his prostate where the drag was sweetest and milking little moans and whimpers from him in turn. Crowley was panting with his jaw dropped, eyes wide, and his hair pasted to his forehead with the sweat. He was finding every way to indulge every little thing Aziraphale wanted; his movement had suddenly picked up pace, fast and sharp, slapping his hips into Aziraphale’s ass and leaning down to capture his lips once more. When he reached between them, he found Aziraphale was achingly hard again and dripping. The thought made him moan into the kiss, groaning as Aziraphale bit along his bottom lip and rolled his hips to meet Crowley’s with such enthusiasm is made up for how uncoordinated the effort was.

That didn’t matter, because Crowley was close. He was moving erratically now, roughly, pushing forward with only himself in mind, even as he tugged at Aziraphale’s hard prick between them. Aziraphale was just in awe over it, every crease in Crowley’s face, the way his eyes shut tight. His lips parted in a silent moan that punctuated sudden, hard, short thrusts enough that might have pounded the bed into the wall of the bed didn’t seem perfectly glued to the floor. But, oh, the look on his face was beautiful. Everything Aziraphale had dreamed and nothing that even the most skilled artist could have captured. Not in the way that he moved, the way he looked, or the sudden rush of warmth when he came, the long drawn out groan.

All at once, his hips stuttered. He rode out his orgasm and then dropped forward, his face pressed against Aziraphale’s neck. It was a warm and pleasant moment. Aziraphale even indulged enough to stroke through Crowley’s hair again before opening his mouth, all the while running his nails down Crowley’s back in that way that made him shiver and his cock twitch.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale muttered, “might it be too much to ask for, well—you’ve sort of left me in a tight spot.”

“Oh, bugger,” Crowley complained, though he didn’t sound sincere about it. After all, he did pull back immediately.

The breathy little noise that Aziraphale let out was something to commit to memory as he was suddenly empty, only the emptiness didn’t last long. Crowley had flopped down onto the bed beside him, then pushed Aziraphale to roll to his side, that his back was to Crowley’s chest, and suddenly there were three fingers pressing back inside him. Crowley’s free arm was wrapped around beneath his neck, like a pillow save for the way he held Aziraphale’s head back against his chest, keeping him still. It felt dubious, villainous, even, how Crowley kept him just where he wanted him while fingers only and alone worked to bring him over the edge again. Crowley’s fingers were something of magic, long and nimble as they were. They pressed right up into Aziraphale’s prostate and made him gasp, shiver, his hips bucking and grinding backwards to try and find more, more—

“That’s it,” Crowley was _talking_ now, of all things. “Just like that, you can do it. You want to, don’t you? You want to come on my fingers.” There was just a precise jab, then, and Aziraphale gasped.

He held onto Crowley’s arm for purchase, rocking back into his fingers.

“What a nasty thing you’ve done, falling right into bed with a _demon_ , letting him use you like this. You like it, too. You _want_ me to use you. Bet you’d see me do this to you every chance, is that what you want? To me mine? To be at my mercy?”

“Oh—Crowley, Crowley,” Aziraphale trailed off in a litany of _Crowley_ , working himself back over Crowley’s fingers where he hadn’t even noticed Crowley had stopped moving.

Crowley was right up in his ears with whispers, breath, tongue, and teeth against the outer shell, nipping along the back of his neck as he started up again, his fingers now a piston in and out. Every press was with such calculated persistence that Aziraphale was coming a moment later, spilling over the sheets with a quiet shout into the back of his hand. He whimpered when Crowley’s fingers left him, then again with _Crowley_ left him. He had half a mind to think that it wasn’t just talk, that Crowley had just done a demon’s do and used him, and now ready to _leave_ like nothing had happened. Except, that was stupid because they were in Crowley’s flat. Crowley had invited him here and more than willingly obliged every selfish demand Aziraphale had given him.

Crowley had only left for a cloth and had returned within less than a minute. Aziraphale had neither seen nor heard him enter, just knew the sudden force against his leg, to _move_ , and the damp press between his thighs as Crowley wiped him down of the mess. What was on the sheets he wasted yet another miracle on, because he’d already come this for, and they did have a plan. Now, it was more just in spite. He spared himself the last bit of the cloth before dropping it down to the floor and wriggling the covers back for them both to lay under. Aziraphale met him in a needy kiss, beneath the black sheets, and then pressed his face into Crowley’s chest.

“Come on, angel, you didn’t _really_ think I’d leave, did you?”

“You’ve threatened as such before.”

Crowley snorted, “that I did. This time, I don’t intend on it. Not unless you’re coming with me, anyway.”

“I rather like it here, I think. Earth, I mean. It’s quite nice with its people and its books.”

Crowley gave an idle nod, “clever human people,” he muttered.

That night, Aziraphale slept for the first time in four centuries, safely coddled up in the wrap of Crowley’s arms, their legs entangled, Crowley’s chin a dull bit of pressure over his head. In the morning, they learned well how to switch bodies. By the afternoon, Aziraphale found himself in quite the predicament, what with facing a demon court system hell bent on eradicating his existence. By the evening, they were dining in the Ritz, and Aziraphale said “to the world” like he might have otherwise said “I love you”.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really just here for the idea of Aziraphale as a Pillow Principality. Pillow princess. Crowley is more than happy to oblige, sorta thing. Anyway, impressed that you made it down here. Have a frog 𓆏  
> [Top Crowley Dicsord](https://discord.gg/6UgMsjH)  
> [Check me out on Tumblr!](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)  
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> 


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